It's Not Broken If Husband Fixes It Before The Repair Guy Arrives.

Husband can drive a standard and bake cookies.  He can dance the two-step and gut a salmon. Like Franklin the Turtle, he can tie his shoes and count to two.  But he cannot, will not, suffer an appliance repair man in his own home.  I think he thinks they belong to some sort of ancient order which, if allowed to enter, will indoctrinate him in the ways of secret handshakes and routine maintenance schedules.

The dryer broke down on Tuesday.  Foolishly I called an appliance repair person thinking something like "This person is skilled and knowledgeable about why my dryer seems to be malfunctioning."  But apparently what I was actually thinking, according to Husband who can add mindreader to his list of many skills, was "Husband has the reproductive organ of a small shrew-like creature and enjoys knitting."  

He took this rather badly.

The dogs and I watched from our usual perch (behind the sofa) while parts of dryer and wads of lint flew about the kitchen.  Various tools were sought out from the places they shouldn't be and applied to the task.  Tests were conducted.  The internet was consulted.  Words were said which shall not be repeated and for those of you who need to know, I can assure you that you don't.

And now the dryer works.  Not just sort-of-works or only-if-you-hold-the-door-shut works but really works.  

It was at this point that Husband sweetly (and smugly) requested that I phone the Secret Brethren of Appliance Repair and tell them their services would no longer be required.  

They tried to offer me some reading material but I hung up.